It was nearly seven when the young party returned, delighted as usual with their afternoon's amusement; and Percy, shouting loudly for his mother, giving vent to an exclamation of impatience at finding she was still invisible.
"I shall wish Morris and all his concerns at the bottom of the Dart, if he is so to engross my mother when I want her," he said, as he flung himself full length on a couch in the music-room, desiring Emmeline to make haste and disrobe, as he must have an air on the harp to soothe his troubled spirit.
Herbert, to look for a poem, the beauty of which he had been discussing with Miss Harcourt during their sail, entered the library, but perceiving his mother, would have retreated, thinking her still engaged; but she looked up as the door opened, and perceiving him, smiled, and asked him if they had had a pleasant afternoon. He looked at her earnestly, without making any reply; then approaching her, took one of her hands in his, and said, fondly—
"Forgive me, dearest mother; I ought not, perhaps, to ask, but I am sure something is wrong. You are ill—anxious—may I not share it? Can I do nothing?"
"Nothing, my Herbert; bless you for your watchful love—it is such comfort." And the long pressure of the hand which so warmly clasped hers, the involuntary tenderness with which these few words were said, betrayed how much she needed such comfort at that moment, but she rallied instantly. "Do not look so anxious, dear boy, I am not ill—not quite happy, perhaps, but we know where to look for strength to bear trial, Herbert. Wait tea for me till eight o'clock; it is probable I may be engaged till then;" and, satisfied that she did not wish to be more explicit, Herbert took his book, and somewhat sorrowfully left her.
Ten minutes more, and the massive door unclosed again, but no step advanced, for the intruder remained rooted where the door had closed. It was a very large and lofty room, with an arched and Gothic roof, of black and fretted oak, the walls and chimney-piece of the same material and most elaborate workmanship. A sort of dais, remnant of olden times, divided the upper part of the room, by two or three steps, from the lower. On this dais was the raised reading-desk of superbly carved oak, at which Mr. Hamilton officiated morning and evening, and two library tables of more modern workmanship stood on each side, but rather lower down. Except the massive oaken chairs and couches, and three or four curious tables scattered about, and the well-filled book-cases, forming, to the height of five feet, the border, as it were, of the fretted wood-work of the walls, and filling up the niches formed by the windows; the lower part of the hall, two-thirds of the length, was comparatively unoccupied, showing its vast space and superb roof to still greater advantage. The magnificently stained windows, one on the dais—a deep oriel—threw such subdued light into the room, as accorded well with its other appointments; but as evening advanced, gave it that sort of soft, holy light, which always impresses the spirit with a species of awe.
We do not think it was that feeling alone which so overpowered the second intruder, as to arrest her spell-bound on the threshold. Mrs. Hamilton was seated at one of the tables on the dais nearest the oriel window, the light from which fell full on her, giving her figure, though she was seated naturally enough in one of the large, maroon velvet, oaken chairs, an unusual effect of dignity and command, and impressing the terrified beholder with such a sensation of awe, that had her life depended on it, she could not for that one minute have gone forward; and even when desired to do so by the words—
"I desired your presence, Ellen, because I wished to speak to you; come here without any more delay,"—how she walked the whole length of that interminable room, and stood facing her aunt, she never knew.
Mrs. Hamilton for a full minute did not speak, but she fixed that searching look, to which we have once before alluded, upon Ellen's face; and then said, in a tone which, though very low and calm, expressed as much as that earnest look—
"Ellen! is it necessary for me to tell you why you are here—necessary to produce the proof that my words are right, and that you have been influenced by the fearful effects of some unconfessed and most heinous sin? Little did I dream its nature."
For a moment Ellen stood as turned to stone, as white and rigid—the next she had sunk down, with a wild, bitter cry at Mrs. Hamilton's feet, and buried her face in her hands.
"Is it true—can it be true—that you, offspring of my own sister, dear to me, cherished by me as my own child—you have been the guilty one to appropriate, and conceal the appropriation of money, which has been a source of distress by its loss, and the suspicion thence proceeding, for the last seven weeks?—that you could listen to your uncle's words, absolving his whole household as incapable of a deed which was actual theft, and yet, by neither word nor sign, betray remorse or guilt?—could behold the innocent suffering, the fearful misery of suspicion, loss of character, without the power of clearing himself, and stand calmly, heedlessly by—only proving by your hardened and rebellious temper that all was not right within—Ellen, can this be true?"
"Yes!" was the reply, but with such a fearful effort, that her slight frame shook as with an ague; "thank God, that it is known! I dared not bring down the punishment on myself; but I can bear it."
"This is mere mockery, Ellen; how dare I believe even this poor evidence of repentance, with the recollection of your past conduct? What were the notes you found?"
Ellen named them.
"Where are they?—This is but one, and the smallest."
Ellen's answer was scarcely audible.
"Used them—and for what?"
There was no answer, neither then, nor when Mrs. Hamilton sternly reiterated the question. She then demanded—
"How long have they been in your possession?"
"Five or six weeks;" but the reply was so tremulous, it carried no conviction with it.
"Since Robert told his story to your uncle, or before?"
"Before."
"Then your last answer was a falsehood, Ellen; it is full seven weeks since my husband addressed the household on the subject. You could not have so miscounted time, with such a deed to date by. Where did you find them?"
Ellen described the spot.
"And what business had you there? You know that neither you nor your cousins are ever allowed to go that way to Mrs. Langford's cottage, and more especially alone. If you wanted to see her, why did you not go the usual way? And when was this?—you must remember the exact day. Your memory is not in general so treacherous."
Again Ellen was silent.
"Have you forgotten it?"
She crouched lower at her aunt's feet, but the answer was audible—
"No."
"Then answer me, Ellen, this moment, and distinctly; for what purpose were you seeking Mrs. Langford's cottage by that forbidden path, and when?"
"I wanted money, and I went to ask her to take my trinkets—my watch, if it must be—and dispose of them as I had read of others doing, as miserable as I was; and the wind blew the notes to my very hand, and I used them. I was mad then—I have been mad since, I believe; but I would have returned the whole amount to Robert, if I could but have parted with my trinkets in time."
To describe the tone of utter despair, the recklessness as to the effect her words would produce, is impossible. Every word increased Mrs. Hamilton's bewilderment and misery. To suppose that Ellen did not feel was folly. It was the very depth of wretchedness which was crushing her to the earth, but every answered and unanswered question but deepened the mystery, and rendered her judge's task more difficult.
"And when was this, Ellen? I will have no more evasion—tell me the exact day."
But she asked in vain. Ellen remained moveless, and silent as the dead.
After several minutes, Mrs. Hamilton removed her hands from her face, and compelling her to lift up her head; gazed searchingly on her deathlike countenance for some moments in utter silence, and then said, in a tone that Ellen never in her life forgot—
"You can not imagine, Ellen, that this half-confession will either satisfy me, or in the smallest degree redeem your sin. One and one only path is open to you; for all that you have said and left unsaid but deepens your apparent guilt, and so blackens your conduct, that I can scarcely believe I am addressing the child I so loved—and could still so love, if but one real sign be given of remorse and penitence—one hope of returning truth. But that sign, that hope, can only be a full confession. Terrible as is the guilt of appropriating so large a sum, granted it came by the merest chance into your hand; dark as is the additional sin of concealment when an innocent person was suffering—something still darker, more terrible, must lie concealed behind it, or you would not, could not, continue thus obdurately silent. I can believe that under some heavy pressure of misery, some strong excitement, the sum might have been used without thought, and that fear might have prevented the confession of any thing so dreadful; but what was this heavy necessity for money, this strong excitement? What fearful and mysterious difficulties have you been led into to call for either? Tell me the truth, Ellen, the whole truth; let me have some hope of saving you and myself the misery of publicly declaring you the guilty one, and so proving Robert's innocence. Tell me what difficulty, what misery so maddened you, as to demand the disposal of your trinkets. If there be the least excuse, the smallest possibility of your obtaining in time forgiveness, I will grant it. I will not believe you so utterly fallen. I will do all I can to remove error, and yet to prevent suffering; but to win this, I must have a full confession—every question that I put to you must be clearly and satisfactorily answered, and so bring back the only comfort to yourself, and hope to me. Will you do this, Ellen?"
"Oh, that I could!" was the reply in such bitter anguish, Mrs. Hamilton actually shuddered. "But I can not—must not—dare not. Aunt Emmeline, hate me, condemn me to the severest, sharpest suffering; I wish for it, pine for it: you can not loathe me more than I do myself, but do not—do not speak to me in these kind tones—I can not bear them. It was because I knew what a wretch I am, that I have so shunned you, I was not worthy to be with you; oh, sentence me at once! I dare not answer as you wish."
"Dare not!" repeated Mrs. Hamilton, more and more bewildered, and, to conceal the emotion Ellen's wild words and agonized manner had produced, adopting greater sternness. "You dare commit a sin, from which the lowest of my household would shrink in horror, and yet tell me you dare not make the only atonement, give me the only proof of real penitence I demand. This is a weak and wicked subterfuge, Ellen, and will not pass with me. There can be no reason for this fearful obduracy, not even the consciousness of greater guilt, for I promise forgiveness, if it be possible, on the sole condition of a full confession. Once more, will you speak? Your hardihood will be utterly useless, for you can not hope to conquer me; and if you permit me to leave you with your conduct still clothed in this impenetrable mystery, you will compel me to adopt measures to subdue that defying spirit, which will expose you and myself to intense suffering, but which must force submission at last."
"You can not inflict more than I have endured the last seven weeks," murmured Ellen, almost inarticulately. "I have borne that, I can bear the rest."
"Then you will not answer? You are resolved not to tell me the day on which you found that money, the use to which it was applied, the reason of your choosing that forbidden path, permitting me to believe you guilty of heavier sins than may be the case in reality. Listen to me, Ellen; it is more than time this interview should cease, but I will give you one chance more. It is now half-past seven,"—she took the watch from her neck, and laid it on the table—"I will remain here one half-hour longer: by that time this sinful temper may have passed away, and you will consent to give me the confession I demand. I can not believe you so altered in two months as to choose obduracy and misery, when pardon, and in time confidence and love, are offered in their stead. Get up from that crouching posture, it can be but mock humility, and so only aggravates your sin."
Ellen rose slowly and painfully, and seating herself at the table, some distance from her aunt, leaned her arms upon it, and buried her face within them. Never before, and never after did half an hour appear so interminable to either Mrs. Hamilton or Ellen. It was well for the firmness of the former, perhaps, that she could not read the heart of that young girl, even if the cause of its anguish had been still concealed. Again and again did the wild longing, turning her actually faint and sick with its agony, come over her to reveal the whole, to ask but rest and mercy for herself, pardon and security for Edward; but then clear as held before her in letters of fire she read every word of her brother's desperate letter, particularly "Breathe it to my uncle or aunt, for if she knows it he will, and you will never see me more." Her mother, pallid as death, seemed to stand before her, freezing confession on her heart and lips, looking at her threateningly, as she had so often seen her, as if the very thought were guilt. The rapidly advancing twilight, the large and lonely room, all added to that fearful illusion, and if Ellen did succeed in praying, it was with desperate fervor, for strength not to betray her brother. If ever there were a martyr spirit, it was enshrined in that young, frail form.
But how could Mrs. Hamilton imagine this? How could her wildest fancy bring Edward—the brave, happy, eager Edward, of whom captain, officers, and crew wrote in such terms of praise and admiration, who had never given cause for anxiety, and who was so far distant—as the uniting link to this terrible mystery? Was it not more natural that he should not enter the incongruous and painful thoughts floating through her brain, save as her last resource, by his influence, to obtain the truth from Ellen? The more she thought, the more agonizing her thoughts became; what could induce this determined silence, but a conviction of deeper guilt, and what could that guilt be? The most terrible suspicions crossed her mind; she had heard, though she had scarcely believed in them, of entanglements, even where the guardianship had been most rigid. Could one so young, seemingly so innocent, have fallen into the power of some desperate character, who was working on her thus? How could she be sure she intended to take her trinkets to Mrs. Langford? Her choosing that forbidden path which was never by any chance trodden by the family or their friends, her constant desire lately not to join them in their excursions, preferring, and often finding some excuse to remain alone—all came to Mrs. Hamilton's mind, with such an overpowering sensation of dread and misery, that the worst guilt Ellen could have avowed would scarcely have been worse than anticipation pictured; and yet every thought was so vague, every fancy so undefined—there was nothing she could grasp at as a saving hope, or in the remotest degree excusing cause; such obdurate silence in one so young, generally so yielding, could and must conceal nothing but still more fearful sin. The darkness which had gathered round them, save the brightening light of the harvest moon, suddenly awakened her to the lapse of time. The moonlight fell full on the face of the watch, which was a repeater. It wanted but three minutes more, and Mrs. Hamilton watched the progress of the hand with such sickening dread, that when it reached the hour, she had scarcely strength to strike it, and so give notice—for words she had none—that the hour of grace had passed. But she conquered the powerlessness, and those soft chimes, which, when Ellen first came to Oakwood, had been such a constant source of childish wonder and delight, now rang in her ears louder, hoarser, more fearfully distinct, than even those of the ancient time-piece in the hall, which at the same moment rang out the hour of eight.
The sound ceased, and with heightened dignity, but in perfect silence, Mrs. Hamilton rose, passed her niece, and had nearly reached the door, when she paused, and turned toward Ellen, as if irresolute. Ellen's eyes had watched her as in fascination, and the pause endowed her with just sufficient power to spring forward, fling herself at her aunt's feet, and clasping her knees with all her little remaining strength, passionately implore—
"Aunt Emmeline, aunt Emmeline, speak to me but one word, only one word of kindness before you go. I do not ask for mercy, there can be none for such a wretch as I am; I will bear without one complaint, one murmur, all you may inflict—you can not be too severe. Nothing can be such agony as the utter loss of your affection; I thought, the last two months, that I feared you so much that it was all fear, no love, but now, now that you know my sin, it has all, all come back to make me still more wretched." And before Mrs. Hamilton could prevent, or was in the least aware of her intention, Ellen had obtained possession of one of her hands, and was covering it with kisses, while her whole frame shook with those convulsed, but completely tearless sobs.
"Will you confess, Ellen, if I stay? Will you give me the proof that it is such agony to lose my affection, that you do love me as you profess, and that it is only one sin which has so changed you? One word, and, tardy as it is, I will listen, and, if I can, forgive."
Ellen made no answer, and Mrs. Hamilton's newly-raised hopes vanished; she waited full two or three minutes, then gently disengaged her hand and dress from Ellen's still convulsive grasp; the door closed, with a sullen, seemingly unwilling sound, and Ellen was alone. She remained in the same posture, the same spot, till a vague, cold terror so took possession of her, that the room seemed filled with ghostly shapes, and all the articles of furniture suddenly transformed to things of life! and springing up, with the wild, fleet step of fear, she paused not till she found herself in her own room, where flinging herself on her bed, she buried her face on her pillow, to shut out every object—oh, how she longed to shut out thought!
It was such a different scene, such a fullness of innocent joy, on which Mrs. Hamilton entered, that though she thought herself nerved to control all visible emotion, the contrast almost overpowered her; knowing, too, that the fatal effects of one person's sin must banish that innocent enjoyment, and would fall on them all as some fearful, joy-destroying blow. The room, one of the least spacious, was cheerfully lighted, the urn hissing upon the table, at which Caroline, us usual, was presiding, only waiting for her mother's appearance, to satisfy Percy, who was loudly declaring he was famished in two senses—for want of his mother's company, and of some restorative for his craving appetite. He was lounging on the sofa, playing with Emmeline's flowing ringlets, as she sat on a low stool by his side, chatting with him, in as discursive a strain as his fancy willed. Herbert and Miss Harcourt were still in earnest discussion on their poem, from which Herbert was occasionally reading aloud such beautiful passages, and with such richness of intonation, and variety of expression, that Caroline, and even Percy and Emmeline, would pause involuntarily to listen.
"At length!" exclaimed Percy, springing up, as did Herbert at the same moment, to get their mother a chair, and place her comfortably as usual in the midst of them. "Mother, I really did begin to think you intended to punish my impatience by not joining us at all to-night."
"I did not know you were impatient, my dear boy, or perhaps I might have done so!" was her quiet, and even smiling reply. "I fear, indeed, waiting for me so long after a water-excursion, must have caused you to be impatient in another sense."
"What! that we must be all famished? I assure you, we are, and the loss of your society sharpened the pangs of hunger I owe Morris a grudge, and will certainly serve him out one day, for detaining you so long when I wanted you."
"It was not Morris that detained me," answered Mrs. Hamilton, somewhat hurriedly. "I had done with him by six o'clock; but come, tell me something about your excursion," she added, evidently anxious to elude farther remark, and perceiving at once that Miss Harcourt and Herbert both looked at her very anxiously. "How did your boat go, and how did Caroline's voice and your flute sound on the water, Percy? Herbert, I see, has found poetry, as usual, and made Miss Harcourt his companion; you must tell me what verses our beautiful river recalled this afternoon; and you, Emmy, have you any more sketches to fill up?"
Her children eagerly entered on their day's enjoyment—Herbert conquering his anxiety, to emulate his mother's calmness, but Miss Harcourt had been too painfully startled by the unusual expression of forcibly-controlled suffering on her friend's face, to do so with any success. Nearly an hour, however, passed animatedly as usual; each found so much to tell, and Percy was in such wild spirits, that it was utterly impossible for there to be any thing like a pause. Tea had always been a favorite meal at Oakwood, as bringing all the family together after the various business of the day, and it continued to be so. They had lingered over it as usual, when Caroline suddenly exclaimed—
"What has become of Ellen? I had quite forgotten her till this moment; how neglectful she will think us! Do ring the bell, Percy, that we may send and let her know."
"If she has no recollection of meal-time, I really think we need not trouble ourselves about her," was Percy's half-jesting, half-earnest reply, for Ellen's changed manner to his mother had made him more angry with her, and for a longer time together, than he had ever been with any body, especially a woman, in his life. He stretched out his hand, however, to ring the bell, but Mrs. Hamilton stopped him.
"You need not, Percy; your cousin will not wish to join us," she said; and her tone was now so expressive of almost anguish, that every one of that happy party startled and looked at her with the most unfeigned alarm, and Percy, every thought of jest and joyousness checked, threw his arms round her, exclaiming—
"Mother dearest! what has happened?—that unhappy girl again! I am sure it is. Why do you not cast her off from your heart at once; she will bring you nothing but sorrow for all your love."
"Percy, how can you be so harsh?—how unlike you!" exclaimed Emmeline, indignantly, as Mrs. Hamilton's head, for a few minutes of natural weakness, sunk on her son's encircling arm. "We have all given mamma trouble and pain enough one time or other, and what would have become of us if she had cast us off? and Ellen has no mother, too—for shame!"
"Hush!" answered Percy, almost sternly, for there were times when he could quite throw off the boy. "This is no light or common matter, to affect my mother thus. Shall we send for Mr. Howard, mother?" he continued, fondly; "in my father's absence he is your ablest friend—we can only feel, not counsel."
But there are times when feeling can aid in bringing back control and strength, when counsel alone would seem so harsh and cold, we can only weep before it; and the fond affection of her children, the unusual assumption of protecting manliness in Percy, so touchingly united with the deep respect that prevented the least intrusive question as to the cause of her distress till she chose to reveal it, gave her power to send back the tears that had escaped at first so hot and fast, and though still holding his hand, as if its very pressure was support, she was enabled calmly to relate the fatal discovery of that evening. Its effect was, in truth, as if a thunderbolt had fallen in the midst of them. An execration, forcibly checked, but passionate as his nature, burst from the lips of Percy, as he clamped his arm close round his mother, as thus to protect her from the misery he felt himself. Herbert, with a low cry of pain, buried his face in his hands. Caroline, shocked and bewildered, but her first thought for her mother, could only look at, and feel for her, quite forgetting that her every prejudice against Ellen did indeed seem fulfilled. Emmeline at first looked stunned, then sinking down at Mrs. Hamilton's feet, hid her face on her lap, and sobbed with such uncontrolled violence, that it might have seemed as if she herself, not Ellen, were the guilty cause of all this misery. Miss Harcourt, like Caroline, could only think and feel for Mrs. Hamilton; for she knew so well all the hope, interest, and love which Ellen had excited, and what must be the bitter suffering of this fearful disappointment.
"Do not weep thus, love," Mrs. Hamilton said, addressing Emmeline, after nearly a quarter of an hour had passed, and the various emotions of each individual had found vent in words well illustrative of their respective characters; all but Emmeline who continued to sob so painfully, that her mother successfully forgot her own sorrow to comfort her. "Ellen is still very young, and though she is giving us all this misery and disappointment now, she may become all we can wish her, by-and-by. We must not give up all hope, because now all my cares seem so blighted. There is some fatal mystery attached to her conduct; for I am indeed deceived if she is not very wretched and there is some hope in that."
"Then why does she not speak?" rejoined Percy, impetuously; for when he found his mother resuming control and firmness, he had given vent to his indignation by striding hastily up and down the room. "What but the most determined hardihood and wickedness can keep her silent, when you promise forgiveness if she will but speak? What mystery can there, or ought there, to be about her, when she has such an indulgent friend as yourself to bring all her troubles to? Wretched! I hope she is, for she deserves to be, if it were only for her base ingratitude."
"Percy! dear Percy! do not speak and judge so very harshly," interposed Herbert, with deep feeling; "there does, indeed, seem no excuse for her conduct, but if we ever should find that there is some extenuating cause, how unhappy we shall be for having judged her still more harshly than she deserved."
"It is impossible we can do that," muttered Percy, continuing his angry walk. "Nothing but guilt can be the cause of her keeping any thing from my mother. Ellen knows, as we all know, that even error when confessed, has always been forgiven, sorrow always soothed, and every difficulty removed. What can her silence spring from, then, but either defying obstinacy or some blacker sin?"
"It does seem like it, unhappily," rejoined Caroline, but very sorrowfully, not at all as if she triumphed in her own previous penetration; "but she can not persevere in it long. Dear mamma, do not look so distressed: it is impossible she can resist you for any length of time."
"She has resisted every offer of kindness, my dear child, and it is the difficulty as to what course to pursue, to compel submission and confession, that so grieves and perplexes me."
"Let me seek Mr. Howard, dearest mother," answered Herbert; "he is so good, so kind, even in his severest judgments, that I really think Ellen will scarcely be able to persevere in her mistaken silence, if he speak to her."
Mrs. Hamilton paused for some moments in thought.
"I believe you are right, Herbert. If I must have counsel out of my own family, I can not go to a kinder, wiser, or more silent friend. If the fearful shame which I must inflict on Ellen to-night of proving Robert's innocence before my whole household, by the denouncement of her guilt, have no effect in softening her, I will appeal to him."
"Oh, mamma, must this be—can you not, will you not spare her this?" implored Emmeline, clinging to her mother, in passionate entreaty; "it would kill me, I know it would. Do not—do not expose her to such shame."
"Do you think it is no suffering to my mother to be called upon to do this, Emmeline, that you add to it by this weak interference?" replied Percy, sternly, before his mother could reply. "Shame! she has shamed us all enough. There wants little more to add to it."
But Emmeline's blue eyes never moved from her mother's face, and Miss Harcourt, longing to spare Mrs. Hamilton the suffering of such a proceeding, tried to persuade her to evade it, but she did not succeed.
"One word of confession—one evidence that her sin originated in a momentary temptation, that it conceals nothing darker—one real proof of penitence, and God knows how gladly I would have spared myself and her; but as it is, Lucy, Emmeline, do not make my duty harder."
Few as those words were, the tone that spoke them was enough. No more was said, and Mrs. Hamilton tried, but with very little success, to turn her children's thoughts to other and pleasanter things. Time seemed to lag heavily, and yet when the prayer bell sounded, it fell on every heart as some fearful knell which must have been struck too soon.
All were assembled in the library, and in their respective places, all but one, and Herbert waited her appearance.
"Tell Miss Fortescue that we are only waiting for her to commence prayers;" and Fanny, the young ladies' attendant, departed to obey, wondering at Miss Ellen's non-appearance, but hearing nothing unusual in her mistress's voice. She returned, but still they waited; again the door unclosed, and Emmeline bent forward in an attitude of agony and shame unable even to look at her cousin, whose place was close beside her; but the words she dreaded came not then—Herbert, at his mother's sign, commenced the service, and it proceeded as usual. The fearful struggle in Mrs. Hamilton's gentle bosom, who might read, save the all-pitying God, whom she so fervently addressed for strength and guidance? The voice of her son ceased, and the struggle was over.
"Before we part for the night," she said, when all but one had arisen, "it is necessary that the innocent should be so justified before you all, that he should no longer be injured by suspicion and avoidance. It is nearly two months since your master assured you of his own and of my perfect conviction that Robert Langford had told the truth, and that the missing notes had been unfortunately lost by him; not appropriated, as I fear most of you have believed, and are still inclined to do. The complete failure of every search for them has induced a very uncomfortable feeling among you all as to the person on whom suspicion of finding and appropriating them might fall, none but the household frequenting that particular path, and none being able to suppose that the storm could have so dispersed as to lose all trace of them. I acknowledge it was unlikely, but not so unlikely as that Robert Langford should have failed in honesty, or that any of my household should have appropriated or concealed them. All mystery is now, however, at an end; the missing notes have been traced and found; and that all suspicion and discomfort may be removed from among you, it becomes my duty to designate the individual who has thus transgressed every duty to God and man, not by the sin alone, but by so long permitting the innocent to suffer for the guilty, more especially as that individual is one of my own family"—for one moment she paused, whether to gain strength, or to give more force to her concluding words, no one could tell—"Ellen Fortescue!"
The excitement which reigned in the servants' hall, after they had withdrawn, in the most respectful silence, from the library, was extreme. Robert, utterly unable to realize relief in this proof of his own innocence, could only pace the hall in agony, deploring his mad carelessness, which, by exposing to temptation, had caused it all; and Morris and Ellis deepened the remorse by perfectly agreeing with him. Before they separated, the old steward called them all together; and, his voice trembling with agitation, the tears actually running down his furrowed cheeks, told them that even as their mistress had done her duty to the utmost, ay, more than the utmost by them—for it must have well-nigh broken her heart to do it—a solemn duty was demanded from them to her, and that if either man, woman, or child failed in it, he should know that they had neither feeling, honor, nor gratitude in their hearts, and deserved and should be scouted by them all; and that duty was never to let the event of that night pass their lips, even to each other. It was enough that all mystery and suspicion had been taken from them, and that time would clear up the remainder; he never would believe the grandchild of his mistress's father, one she had so loved and cared for, could willfully act as appearances seemed to say; that he was sure, one day or other, they would all find there was much more to pity than to blame; and till then, if they had the least spark of generous or grateful feeling, they would forget the whole affair, and only evince their sense of their mistress's conduct, by yet greater respect and attention to their respective duties.
The old man's speech was garrulous, and perhaps often faulty in grammar, but it came from the heart, and so went to the heart at once, and not one held back from the pledge of silence he demanded. There are some who imagine that the refinement of feeling which alone could actuate Morris's speech, and its warm and immediate response, is only to be found among the educated and the rich: how little those who thus suppose understand the human heart! Kindness begets kindness; and if superiors will but think of, and seek the happiness, temporal and eternal, of their inferiors—will but prove that they are considered us children of one common Father—there needs no equality of rank to create equality of happiness, or equality of refined, because true feeling.
The next morning, when Mrs. Hamilton had occasion to speak to Morris about some farm receipts, which had not been forthcoming the preceding day, she recalled him as he was departing; but the words she had to say seemed unusually difficult, for her voice audibly faltered, and her face was completely shaded by her hand. It was simply to ask that which Morris's loving reverence had already done; and when the old man, in those earnest accents of heartfelt respect and kindness which never can be mistaken, related what had passed, his mistress hastily extended her hand to him, saying, in a tone he never forgot—
"God bless you, Morris! I ought to have known your love for your master's house would have urged this, without any request from me. I can not thank you enough." The kiss he ventured to press upon the delicate hand which pressed his rough palm, was not unaccompanied, though he did force back the tear, and most respectfully, yet very earnestly, beseech his mistress not to take on too much. There must be some cause, some mystery; no one belonging to her could so have acted without some very fearful temptation, some very powerful reason, and it would all come straight one day.
But whatever the future, the present was only suffering; for, to obtain a full confession from Ellen, Mrs. Hamilton felt so absolutely incumbent on her, that she steadily refused to listen to either pity or affection, which could shake her firmness; and the opinion and advice of Mr. Howard strengthened the determination. He had a private interview with Ellen, but it was attended with so very little success, that he left her far more bewildered and grieved than he had sought her; but fully convinced it was mere hardihood and obstinacy, which caused her incomprehensible and most guilty silence. Not even allowing, as Mrs. Hamilton had, that there was any evidence of misery and remorse; perhaps she had been more quiet, more resolutely calm, and if it had not been for the strong appearances against her, he surely must have seen it was the strength and quiet of despair, not the defiance he believed.
"This rebellious spirit must be conquered," he said, on rejoining Mrs. Hamilton, who, with her children and Miss Harcourt, had most anxiously and yet hopefully awaited the result of his interference. "We should actually be sharing her sin, if we permit her to conquer us by obduracy and self-will. Solitary confinement and complete idleness may bring her to a better temper, and, in fact, should be persisted in, till a full confession be made. If that fail, my dear Mrs. Hamilton, your niece should be banished from Oakwood. She must not remain here, a continual source of anxiety and misery to you, and of successful hardihood to herself; but of that there will be time enough to think when you have an answer from Mr. Hamilton; his judgment from a distance may be wiser than ours on the spot, and irritated as we are by such unaccountable obstinacy in one we have always thought almost too yielding."
And it was this incomprehensible change of character, in seeming, that still more perplexed Mrs. Hamilton, and so made her believe there must be some worse fault, or dangerous entanglement, demanding such resolute pertinacity in concealment.
Closely connected with Ellis's private apartments, and having neither inlet nor outlet, save through the short passage opening from her sitting-room, were two small but not uncomfortable apartments, opening one into the other, and looking out on a very pretty but quite unfrequented part of the park. They had often been used when any of Ellis's children or grandchildren came to see her, and were in consequence almost sufficiently habitable, without any further preparation, except the turning one into a sitting-room, which Ellis's active care speedily accomplished. Her mistress inspected them, at her desire, suggested one or two additional comforts, and then held a long confidential conversation with her. She had such perfect confidence in her (for Ellis had been from a child—married, and become mother and widow, and married her children—all as an inmate of the Hamilton family, and had held the confidential post of housekeeper for sixteen years), that she did not hesitate one moment to commit Ellen entirely to her care, at least till she could receive an answer about her from her husband. She depended on her to watch over her health, to see that she took daily exercise with her, in those parts of the park where she was not likely to attract notice, as being with her instead of with any member of her family, and that she took her regular meals; to be with her whenever she took them, and at casual times in the day, not so as to remove the impression of solitude and disgrace, but to be enabled to watch her closely, and the least symptom of a softening spirit to report instantly to her.
"She will, of course, join us in the hours of devotion, though not occupying her usual place, for she who has lowered herself, in the sight of God and man, beneath the humblest of my domestics, may no longer kneel above them," she said in conclusion. "But of my determination on that point she is already aware; and she will go with us as usual to church; I will have no remark made, further than I can avoid. Be as kind to her as you can, Ellis, consistent with your character as a wise and watchful guardian. God in mercy grant that her heart may be so softened, that you will not fill that painful position long. And now to see her."
But Percy's watchful care had so quietly interposed, that his mother found herself in their usual sitting-room, and in the midst of them all, before she could seek Ellen; and when, with half reproach, she told him, that she had still a most painful duty to accomplish, therefore he ought not to have prevented it, he answered impetuously—
"Mother, you shall not see Ellen any more alone! she has made you miserable enough already, and each time that she sees you, her deceitful appearance of remorse and suffering, for they can not be real, or she would speak, but add to it; send for her here, and tell her your decision before us all."
And Mrs. Hamilton complied, for she felt as if her firmness would be less likely to fail, than if Ellen attempted any thing like supplication with her alone. But not a word of supplication came. Ellen had answered the summons, by quietly accompanying Ellis, who had been sent for her, to her aunt's presence, pale, indeed, as marble, but so tearless and still, as to seem unmoved. An expression of actual relief stole over her features as she heard her sentence, undisturbed even when told that this would only be, till Mr. Hamilton's sentence came; as, if she continued silent until then, of course whatever severer measures he might dictate would be instantly obeyed. But when Mrs. Hamilton proceeded to say that she intended writing the whole affair to Edward, that his influence might awaken her to a sense of the fearfully aggravated guilt she was incurring by her silence, an expression of the most intense agony succeeded the previous calm, and sinking down before her, Ellen wildly implored—
"Oh, aunt Emmeline, in mercy spare him! do not, oh, do not throw such shame upon him, he who is so brave, admired, honored! do not, oh, if you have any pity left, do not make him hate me, loathe me too, my own only brother! he must throw me off. How can he bear such shame upon his name! Oh, do with me more than you have said, any thing, every thing, but that. Spare him!"
"Spare him yourself," interposed Percy, sternly.—(He was standing, with his arms crossed, by a window; Herbert was leaning at the back of Mrs. Hamilton's chair; Caroline and Miss Harcourt trying very steadily to work, and Emmeline bending over a drawing, which her tears were utterly spoiling).—"If the knowledge of your sin make him miserable, as it must, be yourself the one to save him—you alone can. Speak—break this determined and most guilty silence, and his influence will not be needed, and my mother will be silent to him concerning what has passed, now and forever, as we will all. If you so love him, spare him the shame you have brought on all of us; if not, it is mere words, as must be the love you have professed all these years for my mother."
Ellen turned her face toward him for a single minute, with such an expression of unutterable misery, that he turned hastily away, even his anger in part subdued, and Mrs. Hamilton could scarcely reply.
"I can not grant your request, Ellen, for to refuse it, appears to me the only means of softening you. It may be a full fortnight before I can write to Edward, for we must receive letters first. If during that interval you choose to give me the only proof of repentance that can satisfy me, or bring the least hope of returning happiness to yourself, I shall now know how to act. I would indeed spare your brother this bitter shame, but if you continue thus obdurate, no entreaties will move me. Rise, and go with Ellis. Punishment and misery, repentance and pardon, are all before you; you alone can choose. I shall interfere no more, till your uncle's sentence comes." And longing to end this painful scene, for her mistress's sake, Ellis led Ellen from the room, and conducted her to the apartments assigned her. She felt much too angry and annoyed at the pain and trouble Ellen, was giving her mistress, to evince any thing like kindness toward her at first, but she had not been under her care above a week before her feelings underwent a complete change.
Suffering as she was enduring, more especially from the conviction, that to every one of those she loved (for affection for each one of the family had now returned with almost passionate violence) she must be an object of hate and loathing, yet that her sin was known, was a relief so inexpressibly blessed, she felt strengthened to endure every thing else. She knew, and her God knew, the agonized temptation to the momentary act, and the cause of her determined silence. She felt there was strange comfort in that; though she knew no punishment could be too severe for the sin itself, and she prayed constantly to be enabled to bear it, and still not to betray her brother; and the consequence of these petitions was a calm, gentle, deeply submissive demeanor. Not a murmur ever passed her lips, and Ellis scarcely ever saw the signs of tears, which she longed for; for the quiet, but fearfully intense suffering, Ellen's very evident daily portion, alarmed her for its effect upon her always delicate health. As yet, however, there was no outward appearance of its failing, it rather bore up, from the cessation of the nervous dread and constant terror, which she had endured before; and before Mr. Hamilton's letter arrived, a month after the fatal discovery, Ellis had drawn her own conclusions, and her manner, instead of being distant and cold, had become so excessively kind and feeling, that the poor girl felt some heavy change must be impending, she dared not look to the continuance of such comfort.
But Mrs. Hamilton never saw her niece, save when no words could pass between them; and she could not judge as Ellis did. She could only feel, as each day passed, without bringing the desired proof of sorrow and amendment, more and more bewildered, and very wretched. Though, for her children's sake, she so conquered the feeling as, after the first week, to restore cheerfulness, and promote the various amusements they had all so enjoyed. Ellen's disappearance had of course to be accounted for, to the intimate friends with whom they so constantly were; but her acknowledgment that she had been disappointed in her, and that her conduct would not allow her any social or domestic indulgence, at least for a time, satisfied the elder members. Annie, for the first time, discovered that Caroline was her match in cleverness, merely from her excessive truth and simplicity, and that, manœuvre as she might, she could not discover the smallest clew to this sudden mystery. And Mary, for the first time, and on this one subject alone, found Herbert and Emmeline impenetrably reserved.
As soon as Mrs. Langford had been informed by her son, at his mistress's desire, of the unanswerable proof of his innocence, she hastened to the Hall, and requesting a private interview with Mrs. Hamilton, placed at once in her hands all the trinkets and watch, with which she had been at different times intrusted; related all that had passed between her and Miss Fortescue, the excessive misery she seemed to be enduring; and confessed that the few pounds she had given her, as the sums obtained by the sale of the trinkets, she had advanced herself, having resolved that nothing should induce her to dispose of them; and that of course it was the difficulty she had in advancing their right value, which had occasioned the length of time that had elapsed since Ellen had first sought her.
"Would it not go far to prove she really did wish to return the money?" Mrs. Hamilton thought, long after the widow had left her, and the sums she had advanced returned with interest. "Was it to return the fatally appropriated sum, or because she needed more? Ellen had so positively, and with such agony asserted the first, that it was scarcely possible to disbelieve her; but what was this fearful difficulty, this pressing demand by one so young for so much money? Why, if it were comparatively innocent, would she not speak?" The more she thought, the more perplexed and anxious she seemed to become. The act itself of endeavoring to dispose of the trinkets, especially those that had been given and received, as doubly valuable because they had been worn by her mother, would have been sufficiently faulty to have occasioned natural displeasure, but compared with other known and unknown faults, it sunk into almost nothing. Mrs. Hamilton collected them all together, those Mrs. Langford had returned, and the few remaining in her niece's drawer, and carefully put them away, till circumstances might authorize her returning them to Ellen, and determined on saying nothing more on the subject either to Ellen or her own family.
One thing Ellis reported to her regarding Ellen, which certainly seemed like a consciousness of the wrong she had done Robert, and a wish to atone for it. She begged Ellis so earnestly that she might see him, if it were only for five minutes, that she could not resist her; and when he came, she implored him so touchingly, so pleadingly to forgive her long silence himself, and entreat his mother to do so too; assuring him, that it was the hope of being able to restore the notes to him, without revealing her identity, which had caused the silence, that it was scarcely possible to listen to her unmoved. It was no false humility, but the deepest, most unfeigned contrition for having been the cause of injury.
Ten days after Ellen's imprisonment, the letter arrived from Sir Edward Manly, which Mrs. Hamilton had alluded to as necessary to be received, before she could write to her nephew, and the news it brought, though somewhat alloyed, would at another time have been received with the greatest delight. Edward was returning. In three weeks, or a month at the utmost, after the receipt of his commander's letter, he might be with them all; invalided home for a three or four months' leave. There had been another, and rather severe engagement, in which young Fortescue had still more distinguished himself; but from his headlong courage had been severely, but not at all seriously, hurt. Sir Edward intended sending the pirate frigate which they had taken to England, as she was a tight-built, well looking craft enough, he wrote, if manned with honorable men instead of desperate villians; and had nominated Harding and Fortescue to accompany the second lieutenant, as her officers.
The name of Harding produced no disagreeable reminiscences in Mrs. Hamilton's mind. It had been so very long since Edward had even mentioned him, that she had almost forgotten his early fancy for him. Her only thought now was thankfulness that her gallant nephew had been preserved, and that he was coming home. It could scarcely be pleasure she felt, though all the young party did, for there was such an excitement in Edward's courage, and in his having been in two desperate engagements, and seen so much, that, with the buoyancy happily natural to well-disposed youth, they could only think and talk of his return, forgetting the alloy that must cloud it. Percy and Herbert hoped he would arrive within the three weeks, as then they should be with him at least a week or ten days. If delayed, he would very provokingly just arrive as they would be returning to college.
After much painful deliberation, Mrs. Hamilton determined on making Herbert her messenger with these unexpected tidings to Ellen; hoping more than she expressed that his gentle eloquence in bringing before her the misery to which she must condemn her brother if she would persist in this silence, and so compel an appeal to him, would have some effect; especially as she charged him to impress upon her that even now confession should bring pardon, and concealment of all from Edward. Herbert gladly undertook the mission, and so feelingly, so earnestly discharged it, that poor Ellen felt more heart-broken than she had done yet, and almost incapable of retaining her firmness. But she did; for danger to Edward seemed more imminent now that he was coming home, to the very vicinity of his dreaded uncle, than when he was at a distance. She could only feel thankful—if concealment were indeed so absolutely necessary as he had declared it to be—that Mr. Hamilton was still from home, and might continue to be so during Edward's visit. It was difficult to repress the sickening shudder, when Herbert chanced to mention that Harding was her brother's companion in his voyage home, and difficult, not to express more disappointment than the occasion warranted, that Edward had not answered her last letter. He must have received it, Herbert said, for Sir Edward acknowledged his father's in which hers to Edward had been inclosed. He left her after a very long interview, deeply grieved at the failure of all his persuasions, all his remonstrances, but compelled, he could not satisfactorily explain why, either to himself or to his family, to pity far more than to blame. Percy declared, as did Caroline and Miss Harcourt, that it must be only his own too kind and gentle disposition, which never could blame anybody or any thing. Mrs. Hamilton was bitterly disappointed; Mr. Howard insisted that such obduracy demanded nothing but the sternest treatment, and he only wished Mr. Hamilton's letter could arrive at once. He saw Ellen again himself twice in the five weeks, which elapsed between the discovery of her sin and the arrival of Mr. Hamilton's answer; but if kindness had so failed, it was comparatively easy to resist his well-intentioned, but in this case utterly mistaken sternness. He was in general so kind even in his judgments, that Mrs. Hamilton thought he must have some reason to believe Ellen so thoroughly hardened, and from his report of her was enabled to impart her husband's sentence with more firmness, than had she listened to her own kind, still loving heart.
It was as she and Mr. Howard had both expected. Ellen was no longer to remain at Oakwood, but to be placed under the care of a maiden lady, living in Yorkshire, a relation of Mr. Hamilton, and one who had occasionally visited Oakwood, and was, therefore, well known to Mrs. Hamilton, and to Ellis too, and regarded with such dislike by the latter, as to make her actually venture to entreat her mistress not to send Miss Ellen to her; she was sure it would break her heart. Now Miss Seldon was one of the worthiest women that ever breathed—honest, straightforward, truth-speaking literally to a fault, but as hard as she was true. Whether she ever had any feelings or not, Mrs. Hamilton, with all her penetration, never could discover; but the good she did was immense in practical benevolence, though the quick sympathy, the kindly word, the indulgent thought, seemed utterly unknown. She had no pity for faults or failings, always declaring forbearance and love were all folly; "if a branch were in the slightest degree decayed, cut it off; if the blight extend to the root, destroy it," she was fond of saying. As for youthful follies or errors, she had no patience with them, for never having been, or rather felt young herself, she could not understand the age in others. Ellis had not discrimination enough to discern the good which lay under this very disagreeable exterior; Mrs. Hamilton had; and suffering as she knew a residence with her must be to Ellen, if indeed she were really the character she had seemed in childhood—though the last few months had so contradicted it—she felt her husband had decided wisely, spite of the misery which still even the very thought of sending her orphan niece so completely from her, was to herself. Mr. Hamilton's letter read harshly, but his wife knew his high, almost stern principles; he had not seen Ellen's evident anguish; he could only judge from the relation which had been sent him, and all which that told was indeed against her. Of course he said, if she had confessed, and her confession in any degree, pleaded for her, his wife would use her own judgment as to the period of her banishment; but he could not imagine any cause for her conduct sufficiently excusing, as to demand the avoidance of his sentence altogether.
Miss Seldon's last visit to Oakwood was sufficiently well remembered by the young Hamiltons (though, it was before their cousins had arrived from India), for them all—even Percy and Caroline, the most indignant against Ellen—to think of their father's sentence with the deepest regret, and with almost dread for its effect on Ellen.
"If she did but know her, she must speak," was Emmeline's exclamation. "I did not feel quite sure that I was my own happy self, all the time she was with us."
"The atmosphere was frozen twenty degrees below zero in all the rooms she frequented, though it was otherwise a hot summer," rejoined Percy; "and in Yorkshire—"
"Pray do not joke, dear Percy; I can not bear to think of Ellen going away from us at all, much less to such a guardian, though I know she is very good," answered Herbert.
"Now, my good fellow, do not attempt to say a word for Nancy Seldon; she was the only person in the world I ever heard you acknowledge you disliked; so what must she be? Worthy! no doubt, or my father would not have trusted Ellen to her, but for any thing else—"
"Poor Ellen! she little knows to what her obstinacy is condemning her," rejoined Caroline; "I wish she did and then she might spare herself and mamma, too; though I fear even confession would not help her much now."
Mrs. Hamilton might and did think with them all, but she could not swerve from her duty. She wrote at once to Miss Seldon, not entering into particulars, but merely asking if she would consent to take charge of a relative, whose conduct demanded more rigid watchfulness and care, and an entire cessation of indulgence, than could be the case in the family circle at Oakwood. She and her husband had such perfect confidence in her, she said, that if she could oblige them by undertaking the duty, they knew, without any assurance on her part, that she would discharge it faithfully. The yearly sum they offered was large, because they wished their young relative to have all the comforts and appurtenances of a gentlewoman, and the advantages of the best education, the city near which she resided, could afford. Mrs. Hamilton had no doubt of the affirmative nature of the reply, for Miss Seldon owed the recovery of her fortune and position entirely to the exertions of Mr. Hamilton; and she had told him, once for all, that if she could but serve or oblige him in any way, great or small, it would make her far happier than she had ever been, or was likely to be in her solitary life. The letter written and dispatched, Mrs. Hamilton summoned Ellen once more to her presence.
The scene was again the library, where she had been writing, and the time nearing the short twilight of October. It was three weeks, rather more, since Sir Edward Manly's letter had been received, and Edward was, therefore, almost daily expected. The feelings with which his unhappy sister looked to his return it would be a vain attempt to define. At times the intense longing to see him again, caused a wild, almost sick feeling of pleasure, that she might, perhaps, so soon do so; then came all that had passed, and she pictured his anger, his loathing—true it had been for him, but he had not thought of such a deed. He would, he must hate and spurn her, too; and the idea of meeting him became absolute agony. Then—and she shuddered in dread—would he think that he must acknowledge it was for him she had thus acted? and, if so, had she not betrayed instead of saving him? Incident after incident in their childhood rose before her, to give her hope that he would be silent now as then, and not betray himself; but these contending terrors, united with the constant though silent suffering of her banishment from all she loved, the utter hopelessness as to the end of this trial, had not been without their effect on the outward frame. Ellis did not see it, from so constantly watching her, and from Ellen never refusing to take the exercise she desired her, and not making a single complaint as to the pain it was sometimes to walk, and always to swallow her meals; but as she stood opposite to her aunt, in the full light of the oriel window—her approach had been so noiseless, Mrs. Hamilton, who was bending over some papers, did not see her till she chanced to look up—the attenuation of form and feature was so very visible, that her aunt could not prevent herself from starting painfully, and the words with which she had intended to address her froze on her lips. It was with the utmost difficulty she refrained from folding her to her heart, and trying, by every means affection could devise, to soothe or remove that anguish, whatever its nature, far too deep and constant for one so very young; but how dared she do this, when, by this determined silence, Ellen so defied her authority, and seemed so resolved that neither severity nor kindness, nor her own sufferings should humble her spirit, though they had even affected her frame?
Conquering with a powerful effort the pleadings of affection, Mrs. Hamilton calmly entered on the subject for which she had summoned her, reading to her a greater part of her uncle's letter, hoping that its severity would spare her the pain of any additional remarks. Every word seemed to burn itself on Ellen's brain. What she had hoped she knew not, for she thought she had never hoped at all, but the words, "No cause can be excusing enough to justify the entire setting aside this sentence," seemed by its agony to tell her that the thought had entered her mind, if the real cause were by any chance discovered would she be forgiven, and in time restored to confidence and love? And now it was over, even that hope was gone.
Mrs. Hamilton paused for a reply or an observation, but none came, and she continued, impressively—"I can scarcely hope, Ellen, that as even the idea of sparing your only brother shame and misery, on his return home, expecting nothing but joy, after nearly three years' separation and exposure to danger, has had no effect in softening you, that your uncle's sentence will. Once I should have believed that only the thought of leaving me, and going to the care of a stranger, would have urged you to speak directly. I can believe this no longer; but as I wish you to be with Edward, at least part of his stay with us, I shall postpone your leaving us, one month from to-day. If, indeed, Edward's influence be such that, for his sake, you will make me a full confession and answer clearly and distinctly every question I put to you, your residence with Miss Seldon shall be limited to three, six, ten, or twelve months, according to the nature of the motive of this incomprehensible and, apparently most sinful conduct. If you leave us still obdurate, years will, in all probability, pass before we can feel sufficiently confident in the restored integrity and openness of your character to permit your return to us. The pain you are inflicting upon me it is useless to dwell upon. As the child of my only and most dearly loved sister, I have loved you, hoped for you, with little less intensity of affection than that I have borne toward my own; for I felt that, with the sole exception of your brother, I was the only being you had on earth united to you by ties of blood. How this conduct repays my love and care you must answer to yourself; I can only be sensible of bitter disappointment."
Again she stopped, evidently expecting a reply, but Ellen still remained silent. The short twilight of autumn had set in so suddenly, that Mrs. Hamilton was not aware her niece's cheek had become still paler, and that her white lips quivered repeatedly, as if she several times tried to speak, but could not. After a silence of some minutes, she said—
"If you are determined not to speak, Ellen, you may retire. I have told you all I wished to say, except that till you leave us though you will still occupy your present rooms, and be still under Ellis's care, you are at liberty to employ yourself, and go about the house and grounds as usual."
Ellen turned to go, still in that unbroken silence; she had reached the low step dividing the upper part from the lower part of the room, and whether she did not see it, or from some other cause, the room suddenly reeled before her, and she fell heavily forward. To spring toward her, raise her tenderly, bear her to the nearest couch, though she so trembled herself at finding Ellen quite insensible, as to render the task unusually difficult, and to ring hastily for Ellis, was the work of a minute, but it was many minutes before their united efforts could bring back consciousness.
"I knew it would break her heart, poor lamb!" was Ellis's exclamation, in a tone of most unusual excitement; "thank God, thank God! Master Edward's coming home, and that she is not to go till he does."
"Have you so much confidence in his influence?" asked her mistress, as, unable to resist the impulse, she bent down and repeatedly kissed the cold brow and cheek, to which she was so earnestly striving to restore warmth, "God in mercy grant you may be right!"
"Right? Dear my lady!" (whenever Ellis was strongly moved, she always so addressed her mistress;) "I would stake your confidence in me, which is all my life's worth, if Master Edward is not at the bottom of it all, and that this poor child is sacrificing herself for some fancied danger to him! I saw enough of that work when they were young children, and I have noticed enough since she has been under my care."
"Edward!" repeated Mrs. Hamilton, so bewildered, as to stop for the moment chafing Ellen's cold hand; "Edward! bearing the high character he does; what can he have to do with it?"
"I don't know, my lady, but I am sure he has. Young men, ay, some of the finest and bravest among us, get into difficulties sometimes, and it don't touch their characters as their officers see them, and Master Edward was always so terrified at the mere thought of my master knowing any of his faults; but—hush! we must not let her know we suspect any thing, poor lamb; it will make her still more miserable. You are better now, dear Miss Ellen, are you not?" she added, soothingly, as Ellen feebly raised her hand to her forehead, and then slowly unclosed her eyes, and beheld her aunt leaning over her, with that same expression of anxious affection, which her illness had so often caused in her childhood. Sense, or rather memory, had not quite returned, and her first words were, with a faint but happy smile—
"I am better, dear aunt, much better; I dare say I shall soon be well." But it was only a momentary forgetfulness; swift as thought came the whole of what had so lately passed—her uncle's letter, her aunt's words, and murmuring, in a tone how painfully changed! "I forgot—forgive me," she buried her face in the pillow.
"Ellen, my dear Ellen! why will you persist in making yourself and me so miserable, when a few words would make us happier?" exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, almost imploringly, as she bent over her.
"Do not urge her now, dear my lady, she is not well enough; give her till Master Edward comes; I am sure she will not resist him," answered Ellis, very respectfully, though meaningly, as her look drew her mistress's attention to the shudder which convulsed Ellen's slight frame, at the mention of her brother.
Pained and bewildered more than ever, Mrs. Hamilton, after waiting till the faintness seemed quite gone, and thinking that if the restraint of her presence were removed, Ellen might be relieved by tears, left her, desiring Ellis to let her know in a short time how she was. The moment the door closed, Ellen threw her arms round Ellis's neck, exclaiming passionately—
"Take me away—take me away, dear Ellis; I can not bear this room—it seems all full of misery! and I loved it so once, and I shall love it again, when I am miles and miles away, and can not see it—nor any one belonging to it. Oh, Ellis, Ellis! I knew you were too kind. I was too glad and contented to be with you; it was not punishment enough for my sin—and I must go away—and I shall never, never see my aunt again—I know I shall not. Oh! if I might but die first! but I am too wicked for that; it is only the good that die."
And almost for the first time since her sin had been discovered, she gave way to a long and violent fit of weeping, which, though terrible while it lasted, as the anguish of the young always is, greatly relieved her, and enabled her after that day not to revert in words (the thought never left her till a still more fearful anxiety deadened it) to her uncle's sentence again.
Mrs. Hamilton sat for a very long time alone after she had left Ellen. Ellis's words returned to her again and again so pertinaciously, that she could not break from them. Edward! the cause of it all—could it be possible?—could it be, that he had plunged himself into difficulties, and afraid to appeal to his uncle or her, had so worked on Ellen as not only to make her send relief, but actually so to keep his secret, as to endure every thing rather than betray it? Circumstance after circumstance, thought after thought, so congregated upon her, so seemed to burst into being, and flash light one from the other, that her mind ached beneath their pressure. Ellen's unhappiness the day his last letter had been received, her sudden illness—had it taken place before or after Robert had lost the money? She could not satisfy herself, for her husband's sudden summons to Feroe, hasty preparations, and departure, had rendered all the month confused and unsatisfactory in its recollections. So intense was the relief of the idea, that Mrs. Hamilton feared to encourage it, lest it should prove a mere fancy, and urge softer feelings toward her niece than ought to be. Even the supposition made her heart yearn toward her with such a feeling of love, almost of veneration, for the determined self-devotion, so essentially woman's characteristic, that she resolutely checked its ascendency. All her previous fancies, that Ellen was no ordinary child, that early suffering and neglect had, while they produced some childish faults, matured and deepened the capabilities of endurance and control, from the consciousness (or rather existence, for it was not the consciousness to the child herself) of strong feeling, returned to her, as if determined to confirm Ellis's supposition. The disappearance of her allowance; her assertion, that she was seeking Mrs. Langford's cottage, by that shorter but forbidden path, to try and get her to dispose of her trinkets, when the wind blew the notes to her hand—all now seemed connected one with the other, and confirmed. She could well understand, how in a moment of almost madness they might have been used without thought, and the after-effect upon so delicate a mind and conscience. Then, in contradiction to all this (a mere hypothesis raised on nothing firmer than Ellis's supposition), came the constantly favorable accounts of Edward; his captain's pride and confidence in him; the seeming impossibility that he could get into such difficulties, and what were they? The name of Harding rushed on her mind, she knew not why or how—but it made her tremble, by its probable explanation of the whole. A coarse or even less refined mind, would have either appealed at once to Ellen, as to the truth of this suspicion, or thought herself justified in looking over all Edward's letters to his sister, as thus to discover the truth; but in Mrs. Hamilton's pure mind the idea never even entered, though all her niece's papers and letters were in her actual possession. She could only feel to her heart's core with Ellis, "Thank God, Master Edward's coming home!" and pray earnestly that he might be with them, as they hoped and anticipated, in a few, a very few days.